


Only Most of Your Presents Are Bruises

by rionaleonhart



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Birthday, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rionaleonhart/pseuds/rionaleonhart
Summary: A few months after their first encounter, Nate and Sully are, unsurprisingly, being shot at.





	Only Most of Your Presents Are Bruises

Being chased isn’t exactly a new thing for Nate, but he’s been chased more by people with _guns_ in the months since he met Sully than in all the years leading up to that one weird day in Cartagena. It was nice when all he had to worry about was getting arrested.

“Duck!” Sully yells, and Nate ducks. A bullet thuds into a tree like ten feet to his right. Nate raises his head to give Sully an incredulous look, because seriously, _Nate_ can shoot better than the guy chasing them and he only took his first shot three weeks ago.

The next bullet practically grazes his hair.

Okay, so maybe incredulous looks aren’t top priority here.

Nate skids to slow himself down, rolls under a moss-covered fallen tree trunk and holy crap, the ground’s just _gone_. Thick fern growth and sheer _BY THE WAY DID YOU NOTICE YOU’RE BEING SHOT AT_ adrenaline-induced tunnel vision managed to hide the sharp downwards plunge of the forest floor beyond the trunk from him, and now he’s discovering it in pretty much the worst way possible.

Sully bellows something down the slope, but Nate can’t make it out over the sound of his ribs breaking. That’s probably an exaggeration, but it definitely _feels_ like that’s what’s happening. It’s like someone’s forced him into a washing machine, switched it on and then, just to make sure the clothes have been spun enough, shoved it over a waterfall.

He must have blacked out from the pain for a moment, because the next thing he knows he’s lying face-down on the ground, feeling like he’s just been used as a dancefloor. He can hear feet half-running, half-sliding down the slope behind him, and it takes a moment for him to figure out what that means.

Nate rolls onto his back, a sharp spike of adrenaline running through him again, but it’s Sully. It’s not the gunman. It’s Sully. He breathes out a long, relieved breath that turns into a pained noise halfway through as his body stops going _who’s that?_ and returns to its previous subject of _hey, Nate, **ow**_.

“Hey, kid,” Sully says, voice strained from the run. “You okay?”

Nate gives him a flat look.

“So you’re not okay. You’re alive, though, right?”

“I guess,” Nate says. Ow again. Speaking right now is not even slightly fun. “Is the guy still...?”

“He’s dead,” Sully says.

That’s good. Well, it’s not _good_ , exactly, but it’s a relief. Nate really can’t see himself running any more today. Even sitting up is an effort, but he manages, hissing through his teeth.

“Anything broken?” Sully asks, watching him.

Nate shakes his head.

“Does that mean ‘no’ or you don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” Nate says. “I don’t think so. Can we take a break?”

“I’ve got no problem with that,” Sully says, still sounding a little worn out, and he drops down to sit next to Nate.

They don’t speak for a long while, which Nate is more than okay with. He doesn’t really feel a lot better, but at least his lungs are starting to burn less.

The gunman's dead, he thinks. He and Sully, they didn't have guns. Did Sully take the guy on with his bare hands after Nate fell?

“While we’re not being shot at...” Sully says when his breathing’s eased off. He digs around in his backpack, comes up with a plastic bag. Hands it to Nate. “Here y’go.”

Nate takes the bag warily and looks down at it. It’s tied at the top: strong knots. He considers trying to undo them for about half a second before just pulling the plastic apart.

“’fraid it’s not wrapped,” Sully says, as a shoebox tumbles into Nate’s lap. “Couldn’t exactly find the time in all that running away.”

Nate stares at the box for a moment, totally confused and too sore to think clearly, before it hits him. It’s his _birthday_. He hadn’t even realised.

He lifts the lid off the box.

Inside is a pair of hiking boots, brown leather. They look really well made.

“Kind of a boring present, I know,” Sully says, “but I thought they’d come in handy next time we have to drag ourselves up a goddamn mountain. Can’t have you slowing me down.”

Nate runs his fingers over the toe of one of the boots. He can’t remember ever being given a birthday present before.

“Thanks,” he says, eventually. His voice sounds kind of strange. Maybe it’s the pain.

He’s not looking at Sully, so he can’t see his expression, but there’s a moment before Sully replies. “You’re welcome, kid.”

Nate puts the lid back on the box, and then he looks up at Sully, beginning to smirk. “Like I’d slow _you_ down, anyway. You’re, what, sixty, right?”

“ _Sixty?_ Give me those boots so I can throw them at you.”

“What?” Nate asks, with a shrug and a badly-concealed wince as the shrug sends more pain sparking through his shoulder. “If you won’t tell me how old you are, I’m gonna have to guess.”

“Far as you’re concerned, kid, I’m twenty-six.”

Nate snorts. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Sully says, dragging himself to his feet, “better get you patched up. C’mon.” He holds out a hand.

Nate eyes the hand with all the enthusiasm of a drowning man being offered a pair of iron water wings. His entire body feels like a mass of bruises. Standing up is basically the least appealing thing he can think of right now.

Sully rolls his eyes and hands Nate his backpack. “Fine, I’ll carry you. Don’t expect this any other day of the year.”


End file.
